


I Can Deduce Nothing Else But Love

by Rrrowr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Blow Jobs, Body Language, Hand Jobs, M/M, Slow Burn, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is applying to be a detective! Problem? Only with Castiel, who is the one responsible for weeding out all the candidates and the reason why the department hasn't seen a promotion in years. Thank god Sam has some intuitive skills on his side that basically make him God's gift to the police force, but Castiel doesn't make it easy on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Deduce Nothing Else But Love

When Sam announced to his friends one afternoon that he was thinking of trying for detective, the response was stunned silence at first, then uproarious laughter. He tried not to be offended and failed miserably.

He spread his hands out. "What? What's so funny?" he asked. "I could do it!"

Ruby -- tiny all over but with a hell of a right hook and an unbridled willingness to shoot first, ask questions later -- clapped him on the shoulder. "Relax, Sam. It isn't you. It's Castiel."

Sam knew perfectly well that earning his detective badge meant going through Castiel, the best in their precinct, and Dean, Castiel's immediate superior. He'd heard things already -- knew that it'd be difficult but doubted that it was as impossible as he'd been made to believe. He chuckled uncertainly at Ruby and raised a brow at her. "What about Castiel?"

Light laughter picked up around the table again, and Ruby leaned in conspiratorially. "Well, for one thing, if there was ever a picture next to the definition of 'hard ass' in the dictionary, his would be it. He hates everybody."

When Sam looked for confirmation among his friends, it was a string of faces set into grim acceptance. "It can't be that bad," he said, feeling like he should defend Castiel against rumors since he wasn't here to do it himself. "I mean, maybe he's a bit antisocial, but he's good at his job so what does it matter?"

"Antisocial doesn't even come into it," Nick piped up, sweeping his hand through the air. "He lives and breathes work. He eats lunch at his desk every day. Shit, I'm not even sure the guy ever leaves except when he's on a case because he's always here when I show up in the morning and he's there when people cut out at the end of the day."

"That doesn't mean anything. You're late to work every day," Sam argued. "All that tells me is that he works really hard, and that's a _good_ thing."

Ruby grinned. "How 'bout this? Do you know how many guys in our station have tried for detective in the last year?" Sam did; there were always a lot -- around fifteen or twenty. "Right, so all of them get evaluated by Castiel for a few weeks and then he sends in his his report to Dean, who makes the final decision."

"That's standard practice, Ruby," Sam tried, but she sat up, waving her hands.

"No, okay, listen. Out of all the guys that went for it, how many of them made it through?" Ruby's smile widened when Sam went silent. "Not. A. One. And I've _heard things_ about the reports he gives."

Nick perked up. "Oh? Like what?"

"You know Gordon? Mr. Black Badass, who would beat you with his own arm if you happened to cut it off?" 

Sam knew Gordon -- didn't like him particularly much because he seemed to pick up the potential-homicide dispatches a little too quickly. Gordon was a tough guy, the kind whose bad side you didn't want to get on, and had a reputation for being this side of psychotic. The few times Sam spoke with him had revealed a rather black-and-white view of the world, and Sam didn't want to tangle with that.

Ruby scooted to the edge of her seat, apparently thrilled with what she was about to tell them. "He wanted to become detective last July. Castiel dragged him around for a grand total of two weeks before submitting his report. That afternoon--" Ruby's voice suddenly pitched low and secret. "He gets called into Dean's office, right, and they go over what Castiel's said. They're in there for like _an hour_ and when Gordon comes out, he's fucking _crying._ "

"No way," Sam blurted out, but there was no denying the utter delight on Ruby's face -- the kind of joy that wouldn't be present if she thought the story was false. "But Gordon--"

"I know!" Ruby cut in. "Apparently, Castiel has a reputation of being a nitpicker and running his subordinates into the dirt. Impossible to please and even worse to work with, but so good at what he does that he can't be fired. Plus, he's been here for like a billion years or something, so he pretty much has the cop equivalent of tenure."

Sam scoffed. "Please, he can't be more than thirty-five, maybe forty. Also, we don't get tenure."

" _That's_ what you comment on?" Nick gave him a bewildered look. "Did you not just hear about how he made Gordon 'Bulldog' Walker cry like a big, fat baby?"

Rolling his eyes, Sam held out his hands to stay any further commentary. "Okay, I get it. Castiel is a scary guy, but I mean... Gordon's kind of a dick." He grimaced. "Maybe he deserved it."

"What? You think you're gonna sweep into Castiel's life like a sweet puppy dog, and he's just gonna bump you up to detective because you're nice?" Ruby put her hand on his arm and patted it lightly. "Sorry, sweetheart. It's nothing against you. You'd make a great detective. Plenty of that research stuff that you like so much, but if I were you, I'd wait until after Castiel's retired."

"Or dead," Nick tacked on.

"You guys suck," Sam complained. "You're supposed to be supportive."

"Of course, we'll be supportive!" Ruby said as she batted her eyes up at him in a way that was so unlike her that Sam felt unsettled instead of reassured. She kicked Nick under the table. "Won't we?"

Nick jolted. "Right," he promised grudgingly. "We're cheering you on the whole way, bucko, and we'll be here to welcome you back and tend to your wounded ego after Castiel's kicked you to the curb."

Sam left lunch feeling more intimidated by the prospect of becoming detective, but he was still certain that it was something that he wanted to try. He'd had an easy life so far, and he didn't want to live the rest of it with regrets when he knew that being a detective would be very personally rewarding. Nick and Ruby may have sobered up the idealist inside him considerably, but that was a good thing too. God knew if they hadn't done it, Castiel probably would have and not nearly as gently either.

He put in his application the next day. 

*

A response came within the week -- remarkable, Sam thought, but then he supposed the department could be desperate for any willing applicants with a guy like Castiel weeding out all potential detectives. Sam dressed casually but with an eye to impress -- everything ironed to military precision and his shoes shined to a glossy black -- and arrived at work with high hopes.

He passed Nick and Ruby on his way in and waved them off when they wagged white flags in his direction. He knew that the main body of cops were separated from detectives to the point that they were in a whole different section of the building, but when he saw the sea of cubicles, Sam stopped short, lost. He wandered through them for a bit, hoping that he'd get his bearings, but the only labels were for names. Finally Sam paused at one labeled _Crowley_ and asked for directions to Castiel's desk.

Crowley was older, clean-cut, and had the kind of look that Sam would've sooner put on a businessman than a detective. Yet, when Crowley sat back in his chair and looked him over, Sam felt like he was being analyzed by a very sharp mind. No doubt, Crowley was good at what he did, no matter that he seemed to dress too sharply for cop work.

"Castiel, hm?" Crowley said. "It doesn't reflect very well on your investigative skills if you can't find him on your first day."

Sam's hackles rose immediately. "Investigation requires asking questions. What's the difference?"

Smiling, Crowley inclined his head. "Touche." He stood from his desk and paused, perturbed that the action only brought him up to Sam's shoulder. "Awful big steak we're giving to the wolf today, but you seem to have a good backbone so maybe he'll throw you back in one piece." He tucked his fingers around the lapel of Sam's jacket and tugged on it idly to straighten it out. "Still, I won't hold out any hope," he said and then directed Sam a few cubicles down and to the right.

Sam thanked him and backed away cautiously, feeling somewhat objectified and flustered. Castiel's reputation was just as alarming among his immediate coworkers as it was in the rest of the department. It dampened Sam's spirits some, but not enough to keep him from smiling as charmingly as possible when he finally saw a cubicle labeled _Castiel_ in block print.

Castiel's desk was very clean and organized. He had files stacked on one corner with little post-its sticking out of the edges and his computer booted up to the database. A basket of stationary sat snug between the two, containing a huge amount of pens, pencils, and highlighters along with tab labels, paper clips, and a heavy-duty stapler -- highly studious. By contrast, Castiel was a bit ruffled. His clothing was wrinkled and the kind of ill-fitting that came with buying suits off the rack, and he didn't seem to mind that having his coat as a cushion for the back of his chair would ruin its lines. He had his chair tilted onto its hind legs and was balancing precariously as he flipped through what appeared to be Sam's personnel record.

When Sam's shadow fell across his desk, Castiel looked up and blinked blearily at Sam with two, very blue eyes. Then, slowly, Castiel's gazed slid over him. It was sort of unnerving to compare Castiel to Crowley; both of them had evaluated him with a look like this, but Castiel's gaze felt infinitely more invasive. He wondered what Castiel saw as his attention dropped all the way down to Sam's shoes before shifting back up.

Sam's smile broadened, unbidden, when Castiel's stare lingered without either of them speaking. He couldn't say that he minded being picked apart when Castiel's keen focus seemed almost -- dare he think it before introductions had even been made? -- _flattering_.

"Homegrown," Castiel murmured -- absently, Sam thought, as his stare had become slightly distant -- righting his chair as he snapped Sam's file shut and stuck out his other hand. "Sam Winchester, I presume?"

"That's me," Sam said. "I hope we work well together." 

Grasping his hand, Sam tried to wipe the smile off his face but couldn't. Reputations aside, Castiel didn't seem nearly so terrifying in person as Sam had come to expect. He was, in fact, kind of tiny for a guy, though that wasn't saying much when everyone was tiny compared to Sam's six-and-a-half foot frame. Organized but eccentric perhaps, Sam guessed, but it might be too soon to tell for sure. 

He was feeling very good about things.

*

Three days later and Sam was beginning to change his mind. The work was demanding, but not so difficult as to seem impossible. He had lots of questions because he wanted to make sure he learned everything he could in what little time he might have, but Castiel answered them all with the puzzled frustration of the incredibly bright when others couldn't see their high-functioning logic. If Castiel had a problem with his questions, Sam had no doubt that he would say something; he didn't seem like the type of person to hold back what he thought.

No, the struggle came purely from Castiel and figuring out what he liked so that Sam didn't accidentally trip over a landmine. 

Take for instance, personal space. Most people had it, especially when it came to their work space, and since standard cubicles were typically only large enough to fit about two Sams comfortably, he chose to work at the table in the records stacks instead of cramming around Castiel's desk. That had idea lasted all of a single morning.

*

After introductions, Castiel immediately grabbed a file from the far side of his desk and plopped it into Sam's open hands. "This is our case," he said. "You have until lunch. Tell me everything you find." 

So, Sam dove into the records room, spread the file out over the big table in the center, and settled in for some deep research. He was there for the greater part of an hour -- with a stack of old cases relevant to the people involved to his left and the ones he'd already gone through to his right -- before Castiel swung around one of the corners and said: "What are you doing?" in the kind of tone that totally meant that Sam was doing something wrong.

"Uh..." he replied. He'd never claimed to be eloquent.

"I don't have time to hunt you down whenever I need you. I'd rather have you where I can see you," Castiel said -- which had Sam doing a bit of a double take because that was an interesting way of framing the situation.

Sam didn't argue, though. For Sam to be where Castiel could see him, the best place was at his desk, and if Castiel didn't mind him nosing in on his personal space, Sam certainly wasn't going to say no -- not if it meant getting to see a detective work, first-hand. So, Sam found a moderately comfortable chair to put next to Castiel's desk. He shifted restlessly through different positions, trying to find a good way to sit, and found that the best was by stretching his legs across the cubicle entrance to put his feet up on the trashcan. 

(Despite the loads of coffee he drank -- godawful, plain coffee from joint down the street that he clearly disliked if the way his nose wrinkled with every sip was any indication -- Castiel didn't leave his desk often. That first morning, Castiel stood to leave just once, and in his effort to scramble out of his way, Sam tipped the trashcan over and spilled out its small amount of shredded paper and coffee cups onto the floor. Castiel said nothing while Sam shoved everything back into place and tried not to spontaneously combust out of embarrassment. Then Castiel told him to sit and told him to put his feet back on the trash and then told him to _stay_ before huffing and stepping over his legs as if Sam's politeness was a huge imposition.)

Lunch saw Castiel leading Sam to a mom'n'pop place. It was next to the coffee joint, but Sam had never noticed it. Castiel ordered "his usual, please" and watched hawkishly at Sam while they waited. It was weird, though, to have Castiel observe him while remaining so silent. He'd expected commentary or something while they gathered their food and went next door for coffee -- which was, sure enough, black and unsweetened while Sam just got bottled water -- but it was Sam who filled the silence, talking about nothing because he couldn't stand the awkwardness. 

Castiel piped up only when Sam asked questions, but would fall quiet shortly after, eyes subtly wide, and by the time they got back to their combined space in the cubicle, Sam was hugely grateful for the opportunity to shove his face full of food and forget about talking. Luckily, Castiel latched on to the research Sam had done, and they had gone over it while they ate.

Now that they were back at work, Castiel was in his element and spoke much more easily. He functioned a bit like a robot, Sam thought -- orderly and through the elimination of all possibilities to what must be the truth. Sam imagined Castiel never left a stone unturned during his investigations, but surely that took time, no matter how orderly the person. It was no wonder he stayed at work so long, especially when he handled socializing so poorly. 

Sam picked out handfuls of dichotomies while they debated possibilities and methods. The painfully organized desk and files versus his haphazard, Columbo-esque appearance. His collected demeanor and the ease with which he controlled his work space versus the utterly lost way he'd watched Sam's gestures as if they were the key to understanding the scope of their discussion on burger condiments. How Castiel could objectively discern the motivations within a case, but fail to grasp when Sam was joking.

It made Castiel fascinating -- made it easy for Sam to return Castiel's scrutiny with some of his own.

But that was the first day. 

The second day was worse. It was as if Castiel had used the first day as a buffer, taking the time to collection the information he needed and lull Sam into a false sense of security. 

The second day, Castiel and Sam continued to be deeply entrenched in research -- this time digging out phone records while Sam wrote down the names and phone numbers that Castiel thought were relevant. It started out slow, with a complaint so small that Sam had shrugged it off at first.

"What are you doing?" Castiel asked. Sam looked up from his notepad and angled it toward Castiel so that he could see the names and numbers. Castiel squinted at the page for a second, two seconds, and said, "I can't read your chicken scratch. Rewrite it."

Sam didn't point out that Castiel's handwriting was hardly any better than his. He rewrote the page in a more open hand and trashed the first copy without comment. When they lapsed into quiet in the interim, though, Sam asked a question automatically -- something off-hand and off-topic, something about whether Castiel considered himself a cat-person or a dog-person -- and when he noticed that Castiel hadn't immediately answered, glanced up curiously. Castiel appeared not to have heard him, but then Sam noticed a slight rigidity in his shoulders and the furtive way he would seek Sam's face in his periphery.

"What?" Sam asked. "It's not so hard a question, is it?"

Castiel grit his teeth. "It's not relevant to the case, either."

"Doesn't have to be," Sam said. "I'm nosy, and I like knowing people. I mean, what if I want to invite you over and I have cats, but you're allergic. It could be a problem, right?"

"But I'm not allergic," Castiel said. He still wasn't looking at Sam directly -- was still finding him out of the corner of his eye -- and a frown was creasing around his mouth. It was kind of cute how hard he tried to seem like he wasn't paying attention. "Also you don't have cats. Or any pet that might shed."

That was true. Sam hadn't yet worked up the courage to go to the pound and pick up a dog, but he was thinking about it constantly. He thought it was neat that Castiel could tell, but that begged the question-- "How do you know?"

Castiel turned in his seat then. The sweep of his gaze was like fire. "No hair on your clothes."

"I might lint roll," Sam suggested.

"That never gets it all," Castiel countered. "Also pet owners will tend to avoid jobs that have too high a demand on their time because of responsibilities."

Sam smiled. "Or I could be very good at time management."

Castiel made a scoffing sound. "If you were good at time management, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"I might have a roommate that helps me," Sam told him.

Castiel's eyes narrowed. The frown that had disappeared during the course of their brief debate made itself known again. " _Do you_?"

"If I don't, will you tell me if you prefer cats or dogs?" Sam asked.

Huffing in a very put-out manner, Castiel swung back to face his computer and typed in silence for a few seconds before he grudgingly muttered, "I prefer dogs."

"No kidding," Sam replied, pretending that Castiel hadn't sounded as if the admission had hurt something. "I would've pegged you as a cat person. They're the kind of self-reliant creatures I thought you'd like. Dogs are more demanding, most of the time."

"Having a self-reliant pet would defeat the purpose of a pet," Castiel said without prompting -- that made Sam smile covertly.

"So you prefer it when you're needed," Sam noted, though he didn't mean to say it aloud with such matter-of-factness.

Castiel's shoulders hitched uncomfortably. "Focus on the case, Sam."

Sam really should've figured that roping Castiel into admitting to things he didn't want to meant that he'd take it out on him somehow. Not even five minutes later, Castiel was going over the files Sam had brought out from Records yesterday and told him to make copies of certain pages. Sam did so, and Castiel shuffled through them, picking out eight or ten of them while the rest apparently needed to be redone because they weren't dark enough.

This happened several times well through the breakfast hours, and when Nick found him at the copy machine (glaring murderously at it, he was told) just before lunch, Sam complained about feeling as if he was Castiel's gofer instead of his intern. Sympathizing some, Nick suggested that the two of them get some lunch, but before Sam could tell him no, Castiel's voice summoned him sharply.

"Sorry. Another time, Nick," Sam said, gathering the photocopies and the file folders and returning to Castiel. "Did you want to take these to lunch with us?"

"I prefer working here," Castiel told him, riffling through the copies without looking at Sam. "A lot of your work needs double checking."

"You aren't going to eat?"

"Of course, I am," Castiel said and then without skipping a beat: "I trust you remember my food order from yesterday?"

Sam did, but that didn't stop him from strangling out, " _Seriously_?" with the kind of incredulity he saved for Nick and Ruby.

"Too difficult for you?" Castiel asked.

"No," Sam said crisply, unable to shake the sensation that he was being tested. 

Gathering his coat, Sam took off for the door, realizing that it was raining only when he was outside and being pelted with it. He thought about taking his car for a split second, but the diner was only a block away and not worth the gas when he could run there just as fast, rain or not. 

Castiel's food order yesterday had been simple -- quarter-pound burger with the works and some seasoned fries -- but the longer Sam had to wait through the lunch rush hour, the more he wanted to see what screwing with Castiel's routine did to him. Surely, being that strict with one's life wasn't good; it sure as hell wasn't doing wonders for his social life. By the time he was at the register, Sam had decided that a little variation would be good for Castiel while too much would probably mean psychotic break. He ordered Castiel's quarter-pound burger with the works and a giant onion ring on top, and then regular fries instead of seasoned, and felt sort of gleefully vindictive about the whole thing by the time he had the to-go bag in hand.

The coffee was another story. Castiel's usual was something he already disliked, so any variation would probably be the lubricant he needed to get the stick out of his ass. Seemed a good enough logic. Forgoing the regular, black coffee, Sam ordered Castiel something sweet and milky, and silently looked forward to the look on Castiel's face when he realized the changes Sam had made to his lunch order.

The rain was worse on the run back -- if nothing else, because he couldn't pick up his speed for fear of spilling their drinks -- and so Sam was rather waterlogged when he got to the station. He laughed when he heard Ruby's cheeky wolf whistle and cut a quick path directly to Castiel's desk, shedding his coat as soon as he'd set down the food. As usual, Castiel's eyes were fixated on him as soon as he was in view; it was almost getting to be where Sam was used to it, but his natural desire to blush under that attention was impossible to beat down entirely. He tried his best to ignore it, though, in favor of watching Castiel eat.

Castiel bit into his burger without looking -- typical; the guy didn't care one whit about his body and trusted too easily that Sam would simply do as he was told without question. Sam pretended to get back to work, but he kept an observant eye on Cas, gauging his reaction with private amusement. It was as if Castiel tried very hard to keep a neutral expression, yet couldn't quite help the multitude of facial ticks that gave away what he was thinking. The way he stared at his food, chewing slowly as he angled it to see the surprise onion ring; the way his tongue snuck out to snag the crumbles at the corner of his mouth -- curiosity but not distaste. Castiel kept eyeballing his burger as he reached for his coffee, and Sam had to bite his lip to keep from giggling when his eyes widened and his brows drew together at the first sip.

"Sam," Castiel said -- with such gravity that Sam automatically focused very intently on the paperwork in front of him rather than look up. He picked at the wet, transparent streaks in his shirt and made as as absent a noise of inquiry as he could. Castiel sighed: "Sam, I have to wonder about your foresight and meticulousness as a potential detective when you cannot take the time now to do something as simple as check the daily forecast."

Having expected a comment about lunch, Sam gave Castiel a puzzled look.

"Your clothes." Castiel took another sip of his coffee and licked his lips afterward. His eyes were dark. "They're wet."

"Impressive. It's no wonder you're the best detective in the district," he teased, smiling as he tried to parse Castiel's expression. On any other person, Sam was sure that look in Castiel's eye would be an easy read, but the idea... well it was ludicrous -- far too soon to be considering those possibilities. Still, he added: "Do you need me to change or something?"

"No," said Castiel -- too quickly, Sam thought, and that made him reconsider his ludicrous ideas.

The rest of the second day and the whole of the third marked the kind of life Sam was going to be enduring for the rest of this month. Ruby's assessment of _nitpicker_ did not begin to cover how exacting and finicky Castiel could be. Nothing pleased him, and more often than not, Sam was being sent back to the records room or put on the phone to dig deeper than his original search. 

By all accounts, Sam should have been tearing his hair out looking for a smidge of praise out of the guy in order to verify his ability to be a detective, and yet he didn't need to. He got all the praise he needed from Castiel's wordless observations -- the way he would lurk over Sam's shoulder to check his work and the way he ate the food Sam got them without mentioning how they changed every time. It was good like that; Sam got quiet thrills when something he did rendered Castiel speechless.

Only one thing Sam did neither spurred Castiel to criticism nor stunned him into silence, and that was when they went out to interview for their case. The interview had gone by quickly, and afterward, Sam had immediately declared that the widow was lying.

"What makes you think so?" Castiel had asked, genuinely curious about the announcement, and after Sam had faltered through a description of her uneasy body language and how she eagerly she'd attempted to usher them out, he'd brushed it off. "You watch too many cop dramas, Sam. Please focus on the facts. If you think that she's lying, then you'll have to prove it. I'm not going to support unsubstantiated claims just because you have a hunch."

"Fine," Sam had said, not minding the incredulity. "I'll get you your proof," and he had -- and _did_ , over and over again during the following weeks when he got his hunches and Castiel didn't believe him. 

Every time, Castiel listened to Sam's presentation with a patient focus, picking apart Sam's argument for weaknesses, and then looked at Sam as if startled that he might _actually_ be good at what he did. Every time, Sam was amazed to feel a rush of fright, vulnerability, and excitement that made him smile at Castiel, greedy to impress him again. 

He _wanted_ , Sam realized with a bizarre sort of joy, to be the guy that could go beyond Castiel's expectations. For all his criticisms and for all that he was exactly the dictator everyone thought he was, Castiel was also patient and quick to educate, and during the late nights they worked, he had a peace about his shoulders that Sam was beginning to love. 

At odd moments, Sam caught himself examining Castiel wholly -- from the way he held his pens and the way he pushed his hair into odd clumps when he got tired, to the way he rocked precariously on the hind legs of his chair and the way he would return Sam's staring in equal measure. Sam didn't dare bring up he stirrings of attraction between them. With how their relationship was at the moment, it would look strange to push for more. It might even be interpreted as manipulation. 

But maybe after he became detective... Maybe when they were on equal footing...

Maybe then.

*

Ruby caught him at the water cooler just before lunch. "So," she drawled as she stepped around him to lean against the wall and crossed her arms. "It's been four weeks without your sorry face around. Any idea what the verdict is on your promotion?"

"Cas hasn't said anything, if that's what you're wondering," Sam told her and automatically checked for him out of the corner of his eye. Castiel was leaning out of his cubicle just enough to be seen, and Dean was standing behind him with a thick folder in hand. "But I have some high hopes."

"Oh, he lets you call him 'Cas' now?" Ruby leered as if Sam hadn't been using the nickname for a couple weeks already. "Well don't look now, but it seems as if he's already made his decision." She paused and reached out to touch his arm. "Just don't get your hopes too high, okay, Sam? I've seen you these last few weeks I'm not sure I'm ready to lose you to the dark side, just yet."

"What do you mean?" Laughing, Sam covered her hand. "Don't tell me the rumor mill is saying stuff about me now."

She shrugged. "It's just... You've been working your ass off for that guy every day, and he hasn't given you so much as a gold star." She squeezed his elbow. "I know he's been keeping you pretty late too. Runnin' you down hard. Do you think he hoped you'd quit?"

"Never," Sam answered with absolute certainty. "Cas is tough, but he's not cruel. He just..."

"Doesn't have limits on unusual punishment?" Ruby suggested dryly.

Sam smiled, but quickly corrected her: "He doesn't go out of his way to be nice to people."

Ruby glanced over her shoulder at Castiel, who was having a murmured conversation with Dean and looking more uncomfortable by the second. "Not exactly the kind of personality one looks for in coworkers, Sam," she said.

"You can't pick and choose the personalities of the people you work with, Ruby," he said. "Look, I'm about to make him pay for my lunch. Maybe if you came with us, got to know him...?" He raised a brow at her hopefully.

"Oh, god, no," she groaned, beating a steady retreat. "You keep him. You wine and dine him with burgers and caffeine until he rolls over for you to rub his belly or something, but I want no part of it. Good luck with that, I guess. I hope you get what you want."

He watched Ruby go with a fond wrinkle at the corner of his eyes and then darted back to Castiel's side. "Lunch?" he asked, fully prepared to filch cash from Castiel's wallet for the run, but was surprised when Castiel made to go with him. "Not working from the desk today?"

"No," Castiel said as he cast furtive glances toward Dean, who was circling the cubicle pit and gathering an impressive armful of paperwork. "I'd rather go out."

Castiel was pensive and nervous the whole walk over. He wasn't the fidgeting type -- he was too economical in his movements for that -- but when he was giving something more than its fair share of consideration, his face would scrunch tightly together. Sam imagined that Castiel stared at problems until they just unknotted themselves to alleviate the scrutiny; he could sympathize with the desire somewhat, though he couldn't say he was looking for escape usually.

Normally, Castiel would be thinking about a case -- he really did live and breathe work as much as Nick had warned -- but they'd finished the most recent one yesterday and his eyes kept jerking toward Sam, following his hand gestures and tracing over his face. There was really only one other thing that Sam thought might worry Castiel, though it might've been his ego talking, and that was Sam's evaluation.

"So, today's the day, huh," he said. Suddenly, Castiel schooled his expression into one of nonchalance and quirked a brow at him. "The day that I find out if I'm gonna be a detective? You seem nervous about it."

Castiel protested very quickly and loudly -- "I'm not!" -- before he tried again, voice quieted some: "I'm not nervous."

"You are," he insisted -- had to because Castiel was doing that thing where his gaze was fixed at Sam's collar. It was the same thing he did whenever Sam started picking apart someone's body language for him; a kind of stillness that reminded Sam of deer in headlights or cats when they've been caught doing something they shouldn't. "You don't have to hide it. I keep trying to tell you that, Cas. Body language is a real thing that you and anyone else can read--"

"But it wouldn't stand up in court," Castiel cut in, taking a deep breath. It was like watching a man blink back to awareness after a long time with his thoughts, yet Sam was certain that he had Castiel's full attention. "You're not going to convince me or any jury that someone acting _twitchy_ means that they're guilty of a crime."

Sam sighed as he forked over his debit card to pay for their meal. "Well no, of course not, but it _will_ point me in the right direction, and that's better than aimlessly searching through every last detail. People aren't all that different from one another when you get right down to it, and when you know someone really well, it gets easier."

They were eating out today -- a rare treat -- and Castiel crossed his arms, jerking his gaze to the side while Sam picked up their food. Sam had thought earlier that maybe they were avoiding Dean for some reason, but if it were only that, Castiel wouldn't feel the need to hide anymore. Surely, he didn't think that Sam would use body language against him like he did the people they investigated, but maybe that was an assumption Sam shouldn't make...

"There's no need to get defensive about it," he ventured neutrally. "It's just the way I work. So long as I use it as a method and not as proof, what's the harm in it?"

"There's nothing _wrong_ with it," Castiel said, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to unfold his arms and start in on lunch. "And I'm not being defensive." _Liar_ , Sam thought fondly. Castiel opened the greasy wrap around his burger and said: "I just... I don't understand how you can be so certain."

Castiel avoided eye contact like he was being paid for it and picked at his food, lapsing into silence. Sam just looked at him -- saw how uneasy he was, saw his embarrassment over his lack of understanding, saw his distaste for being exposed personally -- and wondered if Ruby was right. He wondered if, come tomorrow, he'd be facing a life where he didn't have Castiel nearby, day-in and day-out, and whether Castiel would miss him if that were the case.

It was silly to humor those thoughts, however. He'd find out this afternoon anyway. No use in getting down about the possibility of failure. Better to behave as if he was sure of his chances, even if neither of them seemed to be.

Sam wiped at his mouth, noticing the way Castiel's eyes flickered up at the gesture before darting away again, and divulged his idea. "Hey, if it bothers you so much, I could show you, I guess? Teach you or something?"

He could see the idea being tossed around in Castiel's brain (clenched jaw -- tension, suppression, suspicion -- and narrowed eyes -- evaluation) and knew exactly when he was going to agree. Castiel tilted his head back and then to the side. When Castiel looked at him and said, "It could be entertaining," in a tone that betrayed his curiosity, Sam could not help the pleased smile that spread across his face.

"Is that a yes?" he said, leaning in. He hoped it was.

Castiel's cheeks colored slightly, but then he ducked his head, breaking eye contact and swallowing thickly beneath creased brows. "Yes," he said. 

Sam wasn't sure if Castiel meant it, but nodded nonetheless. "Tonight, then. After work."

Privately, he registered that he would know if he was a detective by then, but couldn't afford to spare the thought any attention lest it get the better of him. It was easier to hoard the thought away until he knew one way or the other what his future might hold.

*

Dean called Sam into his office near the end of the day, and Sam left Castiel's side with a wink and a smile before he was tucked safely behind a closed door and slanted blinds. Sam was pretty sure that Dean, as the chief of police, was supposed to be intimidating, but he was only older by a handful of years and had a cheerfully snarky disposition that many -- Sam included -- found endearing. There was a difference between being intimidated and being nervous, though, and while Dean might not strike the fear of God into Sam with his mere presence, his ability to decide Sam's future did.

"Have seat," Dean said, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his desk. Sam sat ram rod straight and clenched his hand over his kneecaps while Dean rummaged through some file folders on the corner of his desk. Then to his horror, Dean pulled the thickest one to the center of his desk and flipped it open. "There we go. I had quite a lot to read on you."

"Is that a good thing?" Sam asked, feeling very faintly brave and hoping that speaking would shine better on him as a person than being frightened into silence. 

"Well, it's Cas, and--" here, Dean fanned through the page corners and grimaced, "--he gets kind of wordy."

At Dean's prompting, Sam went into why he wanted to be a detective and what it had been like working with Castiel -- whether he thought he was ready to start out on his own and what he would do if he didn't get the promotion. Sam answered as best he could, giving a positive spin as often as possible. He had enjoyed working with Castiel, he was more than ready to become a detective, and if he didn't get it this time, he would just try again -- and again and again until Castiel got sick of him.

"Good," said Dean when he heard this. "I like persistence. Cas does too, not that he'd ever say so." He smiled thinly, which only made Sam more nervous. "Speaking of Cas, I saw you and him get into a lot of arguments these last few weeks. Would you say that you have a problem with his authority?"

"Debates," Sam corrected. "We were debating possibilities for our cases. It was never about Castiel personally."

Dean folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "But you'd be glad to be out from under his thumb, right? Be able to stand up on your own?" 

Sam stalled, narrowing his eyes. "Castiel is a hard worker, who expects the same perfection from his coworkers as he does of himself. He didn't push me any harder than I was capable of, and while I would be very glad to be able to work with him as something other than a subordinate, having him as my superior has been the greatest opportunity of my career."

"Nice. Very nice," Dean said dryly and proceeded to flip through the first few pages of Castiel's report. "I wish I could say that Cas was as supportive. In fact, I spent most of lunch today picking apart his unusually long list of complaints."

A knot of dread twisted in Sam's gut, and he shifted uncomfortably as Dean turned past four, five, _six_ pages. Sam had left Castiel with the impression that they were on good terms -- that the last month had laid the foundation for a strong friendship and perhaps something more. The thought that he might have read Castiel completely wrong shook Sam to the core.

"He goes on for a while," Dean said. "Bulleted lists and everything, but it doesn't really get good until the end."

Sam sunk into his chair somewhat and listed to the side, pressing a clenched fist to his mouth. He braced for the worst.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sam Winchester's idealism to the field leads him to jump to conclusions long before the appropriate evidence has been gathered," he read. "His eagerness and stubbornness will undoubtedly lean to contention among his future coworkers. However--"

Sam, who had been staring very intently at the far corner of Dean's desk, looked up. A smirk was quirking around Dean's mouth.

"However," Dean went on, "while his research skills and foresight in regards to criminals are lacking, these traits can only be improved with time and experience, and his intuitive nature to the emotional and sociological motivations of individuals sets him apart from previous applicants. As I, personally, have no experience with this skill, it is my belief that Sam Winchester will be of benefit to the department."

Dean closed the file and leaned back. Sam opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't think of anything. He swallowed around nothing and pushed one hand through his hair, unable to hide his surprise. He was so used to being grateful for Castiel's lack of criticism that receiving an actual compliment gobsmacked him.

"Take your time," Dean teased as he reached for his coffee cup.

A huff of laughter escaped Sam. "Yeah, um." He scratched at his brow, licking his lips. "Do you... Do you think I could have a copy of that?"

"Yup." Dean pulled out a clipped set of papers and put it into Sam's outstretched hands. "Made a copy earlier. Figured you'd wanna frame 'em or something, I dunno."

Sam took the copy and turned the pages over. Castiel's handwriting was sharp and clear even in photocopy. As he read through the things that Dean hadn't brought up, Sam felt a stirring of affection bubble up inside him. "Too tall for the standard police uniform and clearly costing the department money through special orders," he read aloud as Dean kicked back in his chair, nodding with a grin. "Atrocious handwriting." Another laugh worked its way out of Sam. "Takes up too much room at my desk." 

"Yeah, I got the impression that he was angling at something," Dean piped up. "Most of that bullshit would be taken care of if you made detective. No uniform. Get your own desk, your own cubicle. All that jazz."

Sam looked up from the papers in his hand and boggled at Dean. "Wait, does that mean..."

Dean grinned and stood up. Sam automatically did the same. "Now, I'll admit that I haven't had the opportunity to do this in _years_ ," he said. He held out his hand for Sam to shake. "Congratulations, Detective. Welcome to the team. You did good."

"Thank you," Sam gushed. "Thank you so much. You won't regret this."

By the time Sam left Dean's office, it was well past time when most people left, but it was only when he looked toward the cubicle pit and found it completely dark that Sam realized that Castiel hadn't stayed late as usual. 

"Left without you, huh?" Dean commented as he followed Sam's line of sight. "Weird."

Weird was right, Sam thought, then rounded on Dean quickly as an urgent idea occurred to him. "Dean," he said. "I need a favor."

*

Sam had Castiel's address scrawled on a post-it, and he held it to the steering wheel as he drove, edging a bit past the speed limit in his rush. He was still thrilled by his success, but more than that, he was excited by what it _meant_. He needed to see Castiel right now -- had to see his face, wanted to go toe-to-toe with him on equal ground and see if he was right about everything.

Castiel's home was a tiny townhouse near the edge of town, and Sam bounded up to the door, knocking with the side of his fist. "Cas!" he shouted, pressing his face against the door jamb. "We need to talk!"

At first, there was only silence. Sam turned toward the street, searching out clues. Castiel's car was on the curb. The mailbox to the side of the door was empty. Unless he'd walked somewhere, Castiel had to be home. Sam spread his hands around the door frame and peered through the peep hole. He couldn't see anything specific beyond a fuzzy impression of light, but a shadow crossed his vision -- movement.

"I know you're in there, Cas," he said. "Now open the door."

Amazingly, Castiel did, and the sight of him was so wonderful that Sam was pushing the door open and stepping closer before he realized it. Castiel let him, retreating almost as quickly as Sam approached. He looked, Sam thought, _afraid_.

"How did you know where I lived?" Castiel asked. 

"I'm a detective now. I can find anyone," Sam said as he took a few, long strides to cut off Castiel's path. "You left early. I thought we had an arrangement."

"Detective?" Castiel echoed and a faint, happy smile graced his face. "You made it."

"Did you seriously doubt that I would, after what you wrote about me?" 

To his surprise, Castiel sagged against the nearest wall and nodded, tired. "Of course. I... I gave Dean so many..." He broke off with a shake of his head. "Even though I tried to make up for it at the end, I was so sure Dean would give up reading before then."

Sam couldn't believe it, and yet Castiel's relief at Sam's promotion was undeniable. There had to be more to it, though. Were he only worried his impact on Sam's future, his defensive posture would have vanished by now. He would be telling Sam to go home and celebrate. Instead, Castiel was leaning against the wall and eating up the sight of him as if he were starving.

"Good thing he did or else I wouldn't be in the mood for our lesson," Sam murmured, distracted by Castiel licking his lips. "Jesus, are you even aware of the things you do?"

"Oh, don't feel obligated to teach me your... your..." Sam had never seen Castiel stutter before; hearing it made him want to know why -- why now and what made now so different from other times they'd spoken. Castiel tripped over his words, blinking rapidly as he straightened. "What do you mean, _aware_?"

"You watch me," Sam said. "You watch everyone, but with me, it's different." Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but it snapped shut when Sam took a step closer. "You did it when we first met. You're doing it now. It's like you're taking me apart."

Castiel's eyes flicked down as Sam approached, and when his attention dragged back up to his face, Sam felt heat flood his cheeks. "If I said that I was aware, would that change anything?"

Sam thought about the number of times he'd caught Castiel watching him -- the times that Castiel hadn't bothered averting his gaze even when he noticed Sam looking back. He thought about the times they'd stayed late at work together -- two people crowded together in Castiel's small cubicle with their Chinese take out and coffee and paperwork. Or when they'd argue in the car on the way back from a round of interviews and Castiel would sometimes get so into it that he'd park at a stop sign, turning his body toward Sam and giving him his whole attention.

He wasn't certain, but he wanted very much _to believe_.

"No," he stated with a trifle unsteadiness. "That wouldn't change a thing. I would still be right here, wanting you to tell me that I'm right." 

He licked his lips in an attempt to ease their dryness and zeroed in on Castiel's mouth when he mirrored the movement. Even though he was no longer under Castiel's authority, the sense that he was doing something taboo didn't go away. His fingers shook as they brushed against Castiel's wrist. 

When Sam spoke again, it was barely more than a whisper in the scant space between them: "You want me. Am I wrong?"

Castiel inhaled sharply, and said, "I'll let you know."

Before Sam knew what was happening, he had Castiel's hand around the nape of his neck and a mouth pressed against his. Castiel dragged him down before he could even think about reciprocating, and when his hand slammed against the wall to brace himself, Sam gasped, opening up over Castiel and seizing his opportunity. He was dizzy with getting his wish, and his hand went around Castiel's waist on instinct, pulling them closer so he could feel the heave of Castiel's chest against his. 

Sam grunted as fingers slipped into his hair and yanked, and Castiel laughed softly, pecking chastely at his mouth as he settled back against the wall. "You're slow, Sam," he said. "What's the matter? Don't you know how to read me?"

It was the same kind of challenging tone Castiel used during late nights at the office -- familiar, but more teasing now -- and when Sam managed to open his eyes, one of Castiel's brows was lifted archly.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, I know how to read you."

Castiel nodded to himself and smoothed his hands flat across Sam's shoulders. Sam hadn't even noticed that they'd been grasping there, but he could feel the ache of where nails had dug into his skin. Castiel straightened Sam's collar too, and then, having gathered his cool again, leaned in with a sharp glint in his eye. "Prove it," he said.

Briefly, Sam faltered. This wasn't like the other times he'd shown Castiel he was right. There wasn't going to be a paper trail of proof that said: Castiel has a flaming desire for one, Sam Winchester. Fact is that he shouldn't be proving it to Castiel at all; between the two of them, Castiel was the only one that knew for sure. The one who lacked the certainty was Sam.

Prove it, he thought. Sure, to himself first. Then, to the both of them.

"Okay," Sam said as he grasped Castiel's wrists and guided his hands around his neck. His own went to Castiel's waist, to his belt loops, hooking in and pulling Castiel along as Sam maneuvered them to the living room and then to the sofa. He sat on the edge and gave those belt loops a tug. "Come here, then."

"I'm not going to have sex with you," Castiel said, but he got his knees on either side of Sam's thighs and pushed into Sam's space. He didn't seem to mind Sam bracing him with both hands as he edged into a more secure position and held himself over Sam. "You're not that great a kisser."

Sam laughed. "We'll see about that," he said and lied back. 

Castiel leaned with him. He put his hands on the back on the sofa, one brow twitching upwards curiously. His body swayed into Sam's touch as he slid his hands behind Castiel's back, smoothing them under his shirt briefly and then back down -- all the way down, over Castiel's thighs and to his knees. Sam felt him tense immediately, cautious or maybe ticklish. He rubbed his fingers into the hollow until the tightness melted away, and then gave a tug, yanking those knees out from under Castiel and forcing him to fall into his lap. A little yelp of surprise burst out of Castiel's mouth, and Sam promptly had a warm face nuzzling into his neck.

"Embarrassed?" he murmured, turning his face to capture Castiel's mouth in a swift kiss. He didn't tease it out like he planned on doing soon. He surged into the kiss even as he braced both of them, spreading his knees wide and tightening his grip on Castiel's knees. The sofa's back creaked as Castiel pulled on it, but he couldn't quite remain upright as Sam kissed him -- on the mouth, on the chin, under his jaw. Sam heard him sigh sweetly and smiled as he kissed his way to Castiel's ear before saying, "Don't worry about it. I'll make you feel much more than that."

Castiel had always been a bit of an easy read -- even in the beginning when Sam hadn't known there was something to hide and had just been putting pieces together as best he could. While his body as a whole came off as inexpressive and aloof, Castiel gave himself away in the minute things like the tension in his fingers and the crease between his brows -- like now, with the part of his mouth as Sam slid his hand to Castiel's waist and squeezed.

There was plenty of room on the sofa to spread out if either of them had any interest, but neither did. Sam was far more interested in having Castiel in his lap, kissing and slowly coaxing more active participation out of him. He withdrew just so Castiel would chase his mouth. He touched to make Castiel shiver. He moaned to see if Castiel would echo it and smiled when he did. Sam kissed Castiel as if he had all the time in the world -- softly tasting the swell of his mouth, adding little flicks of his tongue -- and every sigh and every returned pressure that he got was all the proof he needed that Castiel wanted this too. He yielded and pushed into the kiss in turn, and Sam felt drugged on the moment -- the slow wax and wane of their interaction. Castiel breathed deeply above him, and gently, his hand came to rest along the nape of Sam's neck.

"There you are," Sam whispered. "I gotcha now."

Castiel trembled then, and when he kissed Sam next, it was with an urgency that had Sam hugging him close, tucking him in, and responding in kind. He could feel the yearning Castiel pressed into his skin. Castiel's fingers did not merely grasp -- they clung. He did not so much lean into Sam's space as he did encroach upon it. When Sam dared to roll their hips together, eager to hear more than pants and whimpers, Castiel hissed and sank his teeth around Sam's lower lip.

He put some space between them, dragging Sam's lip with him until it slapped back against his teeth. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and Castiel made a hungry sound in the back of his throat. "Sam...," he said pleadingly but no more. 

Sam did not hesitate. He tipped Castiel to the side, dumped him right onto the sofa pillows, and covered him, saying: "I gotcha. Don't have to say a thing, Cas. Just my name. Keep saying my name like that and I'll give you what you want." Castiel's eyes fluttered. He bit his lip, and Sam got his knees up on the sofa, hefting one of Castiel's thighs over his hip as he settled into the splay of his legs. "Yeah. Maybe before you even know what it is you want."

It wouldn't take much to have them rubbing against each other. Sam was sure both of them realized that, but he wanted to make this the best it could be. He rucked up Castiel's shirt a few inches and slid his hand underneath as he kissed at Castiel's jaw. Muscle quavered under his touch, and Castiel's breath went still as the backs of Sam's fingers ran over his belly -- up and then down and under the waist of his pants.

Castiel tensed, and Sam shushed him. "Relax. I know what you said earlier, but that doesn't mean that I can't make you feel good, right? Especially when you want it so bad."

After he thumbed open the front of Castiel's pants, the zipper split under the pressure of Sam's hand as he worked it further south, over the soft cotton of Castiel's underwear, and as Sam's fingers scooped around the heavy length between his legs, Castiel did a full-body shudder. His heel dug into Sam's thigh, and Castiel readjusted his arm, slinging it across Sam's back to hold tight at his shoulder. He gasped, jerking into the cup of Sam's palm, and angled their faces together, gathering strength from the proximity enough to settle his breathing.

"Better this way?" Sam asked, rubbing his hand over Castiel's dick. "I know how you like challenges, Cas. Which would you prefer: the challenge of getting off or the challenge of holding off?" Though he didn't say one way or the other, Castiel hid his face as best he could by turning away. Sam kissed his temple, letting him hide. "The second one, it is," he murmured and then slipped his hand past that remaining barrier of cloth to get his hand around hot skin.

Castiel groaned then. The leg he had slung over Sam's hip slid down to give him room, and Castiel's free hand went to his pants, shoving down the waist until the sharp jut of his hip bones were exposed. Sam dragged his hand over Castiel's dick, pulling it free and letting it slap wetly against the wide strip of Castiel's bare belly before petting his fingers along its length. Sam couldn't help looking at it -- arching from the open vee, shadowed by Sam's body, and twitching as he took hold of it. 

The entire time they'd worked together, Sam hadn't dared wonder what it would be like to do this -- to have Castiel arching into him and gasping as they touched each other. He felt alive with power, almost as if this moment was as much of a release for him as it would be for Castiel. Sam could taste the edge of its approach on his tongue when he opened his mouth wide over Castiel's pulse and got the vibration of his moan against his lips. He moved his hand steadily because he wanted Castiel to struggle for his release, and as a tremor worked through Castiel's ribcage in the same way as his breath, Sam stole it from his lungs with a kiss and then another -- glad for the way their tongues met eagerly in the center. 

All the desire that the both of them felt was written boldly on the lines of their bodies. They were flush together. Every action sparked a reaction in the other, and as Castiel's cries and the push of his arousal through the tunnel of Sam's fingers became more urgent, Sam withdrew just far enough to see it, _really see it_ when Castiel realized how close he was. 

"I got you," Sam murmured, tightening his grip on Castiel to hear him whine. He cupped the nape of Castiel's neck and watched as his eyes went dark and his mouth went slack. "Yeah, Cas," he urged. "Come on, come on."

Whimpering in the back of his throat, Castiel touched along Sam's neck to his cheek. His eyes were liquid and heavy as he thumbed across Sam's lower lip. "Sam, you--"

"Yes," he answered at once. "I want this too." With a moan that rounded out Sam's name, Castiel rolled his hips up and came between them. Threads of white spilled over his fingers, over Castiel's bare belly, and they both laughed a little at the sight of it. "God, that's beautiful," Sam said.

Castiel laughed again and his fingers knotted in the hair at the nape of Sam's neck. He kissed Sam languidly, with the kind of lazy depth he hadn't been capable of earlier in the midst of overwhelming arousal, and opened wide beneath him. He shifted the arm he had around Sam's shoulders, and Sam was so busy drowning in the soft heat of Castiel's mouth that he didn't notice where his hand was going until Castiel cupped between his legs.

He broke away from the kiss with a curse. "Cas, what're you...."

"You're a detective and you're in my head now," Castiel said, nosing along Sam's cheek bone. "Can't you tell?"

It's not that Sam minded, of course. He wouldn't turn down Castiel for anything -- certainly not a hand job, certainly not more than that if the way he was licking his lips was any indication -- but fact was that he hadn't really noticed just how hard he'd gotten since he'd had Castiel to concentrate on. Now that Castiel's fingers were outlining the shape of him through his pants, shamelessly folding around him and pulling, the demands of his body were difficult to ignore.

Sam kissed Castiel once, twice, in quick pecks and failed to prevent his breath from hitching when he felt Castiel opening his clothes with both hands. "Whatever you want, Cas."

Humming in agreement, Castiel started pushing Sam's pants to his knees. Sam helped as best he could with one hand and then yelped as Castiel's hands scooted under his shirt, carving upward to pull it up and off as Sam sat back. The shirt dangled from Sam's fingers for a moment as he looked down at Castiel, and he couldn't help gaping as the elastic of his under was tucked snugly under his balls so that he was in full view. He tried to be embarrassed for being so hard while Castiel's knuckles brushed the underside of his dick, but considering his hand was still tacky from come, he figured it was moot point. 

Castiel held on to Sam's dick, gently easing it away from his body, and kissed under his ribs, trailing his lips down Sam's belly and through the light scattering of hair to his dick. Sam very nearly swayed at the sight when he tilted to see past Castiel's hair to his mouth, but his fingers caught on the back of the sofa and held tight. 

He leaned into the hand that covered his hip, sighing, "Cas...," and with his tongue flattened out, Castiel dragged his lips along Sam's length. Sam could do no more than groan as Castiel took him into his mouth down to the root with hardly more than a wrinkle of concentration in his brow. "Christ, Cas--"

It was as if Castiel didn't bother with breathing -- as if he was so hungry to have Sam's dick heavy on his tongue that something as necessary as air became troublesome. Sam couldn't help but feel a little flattered and tried very hard to stay still, despite the desperate flutters of Castiel's throat around him. He cursed as Castiel pulled off, releasing him with a wet smack, and then one of Castiel's hands settled on his hips, encouraging him into shallow thrusts. Sam let Castiel guide him into a rhythm that was neither fast nor deep, yet his body tightened up all the same, eager to push through the tunnel of Castiel's fist and into his mouth.

"Knew you wanted me," Sam confessed in a rush, unable to stop as Castiel wrapped slick lips around him and sucked, looking up at him from under a fan of dark lashes. "I thought as much from the moment you set eyes on me." 

It wasn't true, of course -- at least, not in such certain terms -- but it sounded right. It felt right, and it made Castiel moan around him.

"The way you looked at me, the way you couldn't figure out what to talk about unless it was work... A part of me wanted to root around inside you until you couldn't hide anymore," he said. "I guess I have now, huh." 

Sam petted his hands through Castiel's hair, and obligingly, Castiel angled to the side, letting him see the smear of come that was still on his stomach and his slowly reawakening arousal. Sam's hips jerked forward of their own accord, and Castiel smiled around him, dropping his hand to his dick -- covering it, curling around it, squeezing until a pearl of come gathered weakly at the tip.

"Shit," Sam grunted, fisting his hand in Castiel's hair and pulling him back and tilting his head so that he could see the undisguised smugness on his face. "I've unleashed a monster," he breathed and then bowed to capture Castiel's mouth.

His tongue swept in to claim a taste, and Sam moaned as Castiel's hand joined his around his dick. Together, they pushed Sam closer to the edge and then over, their laced fingers stripping his length with a hard grip -- two times, three before he came over Castiel in threads of pearly white. 

Afterward, Sam leaned into Castiel's space, pressing their foreheads together and letting his eyes close so he could absorb the atmosphere of the moment. He felt more languid and relaxed than he had in weeks, since before he'd ever decided to become a detective, and now here he was, basking in the afterglow with the man that had been his superior.

Castiel tugged him down, and they snuggled together against the cushions. "You're quiet," he said. "Should I be concerned?"

Sam shook his head, nosing along Castiel's cheek and kissing him lightly. "It's nothing, really," he said. He chuckled a bit. "Just remembering you said that you weren't going to have sex with me."

Accepting the kiss with an amused murmur, Castiel cuddled closer, warm and affectionate in his satisfaction. "You're better at hand jobs than you are at kissing," he said plainly. "And like some of your other skills..."

"My kissing will improve with time and experience?" Sam suggested with a grin. "Does that mean you're offering to help?"

Castiel absently scratched at his side, flicking the flakes of dried come away with a wrinkle of his nose. "Would you like me to?"

"Cas, be serious," Sam said, forcing eye contact with a duck of his head. "I'd like to know what's going to happen tomorrow."

Sam felt his heart hammering with uncertainty as Castiel remained silent for a second. He was hoping for more, of course, but neither of them had made any promises. He'd be alright eventually if this was just a one time thing, but he needed to know. He didn't want to be surprised by it if he could help it.

"Tomorrow," Castiel began after his measured silence. "Tomorrow, we'll work as usual. Maybe get a new case, and you'll get me some new coffee thing from the shop."

Reading Castiel's expression, Sam could find only caution. He hadn't thought it was possible to be resigned and hopeful at the same time, and yet... "What about after work, Cas?"

Sighing, Castiel rolled his eyes. "Do I really have to say? I thought you were supposed to be a mind reader tonight."

Sam reached for Castiel's hand and laced their fingers. "Please," he said. "I don't want to assume too much."

"After work, then," he went on with a sort of grudging wistfulness. "I'll take you home with me, and if we're lucky, I'll get you all the way to the bedroom."

A smile blossomed across Sam's face. "And if we're unlucky?" 

"If we're unlucky," Castiel said, blushing ever so slightly as he finally met Sam's gaze properly, "I'll have you against the door."


End file.
